Tokyo: The Player Behind the Scenes.

Chapter 365, Section 112: Constantine

The atmosphere in London hasn't been very good lately.

The "atmosphere" referred to here is not just about customs and habits, but also includes the smell and odor.

A gentle breeze swept by, bringing not the refined aroma of coffee, perfume, and black tea that once filled the financial district, but the smell of dust mixed with scabs and ashes entwined with rust.

After the giant ripper ravaged the city, many parts of this world-famous city were reduced to ruins.

The glass curtain walls of some high-rise buildings have long since shattered into dust, with little of the steel frame remaining, crookedly stuck to the ground like the exposed ribs of a giant beast.

The British Museum has vanished from its original location, replaced by a towering iceberg. If you look closely, you can still see the giant inside, still in the gesture of reaching out.

From Westminster Palace to the British Museum, there are two deep trenches plowed out by giants, now half-filled with murky rainwater. London has had a lot of rain in the past two weeks, and there is a lot of garbage floating on the water.

The Thames River was greyish-black, with large amounts of foam and garbage floating on its surface.

The river, once bustling with tourist boats, is now only occasionally traversed by a few assault boats carrying soldiers in hazmat suits and diving suits, tasked with retrieving any remaining snow debris that may exist at the bottom of the river.

However, this London now exudes a strange vitality.

Large crowds moved about, especially on the muddy banks of the river, creating a lively scene.

People were scattered along the riverbank, forming a discontinuous treasure hunt route from Chelsea Bridge upstream to Tower Bridge downstream.

Everyone was wearing rubber gloves and holding all sorts of tools.

Some brought garden shovels, some brought iron shovels picked up from construction sites, and some even brought fine mesh sieves for sifting flour.

They squatted on the ground, their eyes fixed on the soil beneath their feet, their fingers digging through the gravel and mud.

This is the new national occupation in London after the disaster – snow catcher.

"Found it! Damn, we really found it!"

A suppressed gasp suddenly erupted from the crowd. The speaker was a young man wearing ripped jeans. On the fine sieve in his hand were three grains of rice-sized, faintly silvery things—that was Saint Snow.

The young man's eyes shone, and his breathing seemed to tremble. He quickly picked up the snowflake with his gloved fingers, stuffed it into his inner pocket, pressed it tightly against the pocket, and got up to run towards the alley in the distance.

He regretted it the moment he spoke. He knew all too well that exposing himself to find Shengxue here was no different from holding a piece of meat in a pack of wolves.

But he was still too slow.

Not far away, three black men wearing hoodies looked up almost simultaneously, their eyes fixed on the young man. After exchanging glances, they dropped their tools without a word and quickly followed him.

The young man caught a glimpse of the pursuers behind him out of the corner of his eye. He didn't dare to turn around, so he threw the sieve and shovel in his hand to the ground, pressed down on the Shengxue in his pocket, and ran forward for his life.

The ground was slippery, and he almost fell several times. His trouser legs were covered in mud, and he didn't dare to stop for even a second.

But he still couldn't outrun those three men.

As they turned a corner, one of the tall men suddenly sped up, pounced on the young man from the side, and pinned him to the ground.

With a muffled thud, the young man's face slammed into the ground. Two other men followed closely behind, one holding down his arm and the other stomping on his leg, their fists raining down on his back and waist.

"Hand it over! Or I'll cripple you!" the tall man growled, reaching for the young man's pocket.

The young man struggled and roared, "That's mine! I searched for three days to find it!"

"Yours? In London, whoever grabs it gets to keep it!" another man sneered, increasing the pressure on his leg.

The young man's cries of agony echoed in the empty street corner, but not a single snow remover came to help.

The people in the distance only glanced up before quickly lowering their heads to continue searching the soil, their eyes filled with vigilance, not sympathy.

They were afraid of getting into trouble, thought the young man was stupid, and were secretly pleased. In London's current situation, he still didn't understand the principle of quietly making a fortune; he deserved to be robbed by others.

Only when the sirens grew louder did the three black men finally pull the three snowflakes from the bruised and swollen young man's pocket, stuff them into their own pockets, and then sprint off into another alley.

When the two policemen reached the street corner, panting, only the young man was left lying on the ground, his clothes torn in several places, his face covered in a mixture of mud and tears.

"Are you alright? Can you stand up?" One of the policemen crouched down, trying to help him up.

The young man slumped to the ground, pointing in the direction the three men had fled, and grabbed the policeman's hand: "Quick, they ran that way! I found Saint Snow! I found her! Please help me bring her back, please!"

After arriving in London, he searched for three whole days, sleeping only a few hours each day and eating bread when he was hungry. He finally found three grains of snow, thinking he could exchange them for some money, but now he has nothing left.

The two officers exchanged a glance, shook their heads, and patted the young man on the shoulder: "Give up, you won't find it. Be more careful next time."

Then the young man, who was left dumbfounded, got into the car and left.

The sirens faded into the distance, and the street corner returned to its deathly silence, punctuated only by the occasional sighs or arguments of snow collectors in the distance.

All of this happened not far from James Wallace.

But he never looked up once.

Wallace squatted on a rock by the river, holding a small gardening shovel in his hand, slowly digging at the soil beneath his feet.

His movements were light, unlike the other snowsweepers who dug and sifted frantically; rather, he seemed to be tending to the flowers and plants in his own garden—if his garden hadn't been trampled by the giant during the London disaster.

He was wearing a fairly neatly ironed dark gray suit. Although there were mud spots on the cuffs and the hems of his trousers were worn, his tie was still tied neatly without a single wrinkle.

This was one of his few habits. Even though he lost his job before the disaster and his daughter after the disaster, even though he had to search for sacred snow in the mud every day, he was unwilling to make himself look like a destitute person.

As a former game level designer, Wallace has an almost obsessive pursuit of "order".

The level designs he created required precise timing, down to the second, including the location of every item and the respawn time of every enemy.

At home, his books are arranged by publication year, cups are placed upside down on a tray, and his daughter's utensils are categorized and placed in different boxes.

But now, London is in chaos, and so is his life. The only thing that allows him to maintain a sense of order is this suit.

"Sigh, if I keep looking like this, I might as well find a job."

A middle-aged man's grumbling came from nearby. He shoveled his shovel into the ground, sat down on a rock, and pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, only to find that the lighter was long gone. He threw the cigarette on the ground in frustration and crushed it with his foot.

"Looking for a job? Where are you going to look?" another man in a blue coat chimed in, his sieve holding only a few withered straws. "Half of the big companies in London have probably gone out of business, and the remaining jobs aren't respectable. Besides, even if you find a job, a month's salary won't even buy a fraction of a gram of Saint Snow."

“Exactly!” A woman chimed in, sensing a topic to discuss. “Most of the sacred snow was taken by the churches, officials, and those who didn’t leave London during the disaster. This sacred snow is a gift from God to all of Britain, so why should they have it all to themselves?”

These words ignited the emotions of the surrounding snow collectors, and the atmosphere became lively.

"Exactly! My son has a terminal illness, and the doctor said that only Saint Snow can save him, but I've been to every church in London, and they all say that Saint Snow has already run out!"

“I participated in a march in front of the Parliament building a couple of days ago, and I got beaten by the police! They said I was disturbing public order, but don’t they ever think about what they would do if someone in their family was waiting for Saint Snow to save their life?”

"I heard that so-and-so dug up a handful of Sacred Snow yesterday and became rich overnight."

The discussion grew louder and louder. Some people were angrily waving their fists, some were wiping away tears with red eyes, and others began to curse the privileged class who occupied the sacred snow.

Protests have been launched in many parts of the country, all wanting a share of the snow, on the grounds that, as they have been discussing, it is a gift from God to all of Britain and should not be monopolized by a few.

This anger reached its peak after learning that the authorities had not withstood the pressure and had given Amei a portion of the Holy Snow.

There are two groups of people here. One group really wants the Holy Snow. Most of them are seriously ill and need the Holy Snow to save their lives.

Another group of people simply wanted money. They believed that the Holy Snow belonged to everyone, and since the authorities had taken it from everyone, they should provide subsidies.

The authorities would naturally not open this door, otherwise, if the Holy Snow were distributed, would the Holy Rain also be distributed? The quantity of Holy Snow was already limited, and now the price is even more inflated. Those people are saying that the authorities have stockpiled tens of thousands of tons of Holy Snow, completely unaware of the weight.

If there really are that many, the authorities might actually allocate some of them.

But nobody wanted to believe it.

In the face of disaster, people are always more willing to believe malicious speculations because they allow them to blame their misfortune on others rather than the harsh reality.

Wallace raised his wrist and glanced at his watch.

It's 3:30 PM, time to go back.

He stood up and slowly began to pack up his tools.

Then he went to the riverbank and washed the mud off his hands and tools with the not-so-clean water. The water was cold, and the biting chill spread from his fingers to his arms, but he seemed not to feel it, mechanically washing himself.

After washing, he put his tools into his canvas bag, zipped it up, and then walked along the riverbank toward home.

To get from the banks of the Thames to his home, one has to pass through several dilapidated streets. The first street was once a famous commercial street in London, but now all the shop windows have been smashed, and the goods inside have been looted, leaving only empty shelves and scattered wrapping paper.

At the entrance of a once bustling coffee shop, the signboard lies on the ground, its lettering worn and illegible. The tables and chairs outside are overturned, with dried coffee stains still on the surfaces.

Wallace paused for a moment as he walked past the coffee shop.

He remembered that he had brought his daughter here to buy a small cake for her birthday last year. His daughter was wearing a blue dress and sitting by the window, excitedly pointing at the pigeons outside the window, saying that she wanted to feed the pigeons the cream on the cake.

The sun was shining brightly at that time.

But now, the pigeons are gone, the cake shop has closed down, and the daughter is gone too.

He took a deep breath, suppressed the sob in his throat, and continued walking forward.

Most of the houses in the residential area still retain their original outlines. Although many people fled during the two weeks following the London disaster, those who hadn't gone far returned immediately after the Holy Snow.

He lived at the end of the street in a two-story villa.

During the disaster, the house was only trampled on by a passing giant (a giant in its steel form) in the garden. The roof was shaken and a hole was knocked out. Later, he found a piece of plastic sheeting and barely managed to patch the hole.

Upon reaching his front door, Wallace first crouched down and carefully examined a thin thread in the gap at the bottom of the door.

It was a makeshift alarm he'd made himself; the thread would snap if someone opened the door. The thread hadn't broken, and he breathed a slight sigh of relief, then stood up and took a bunch of keys from his pocket.

He first unlocked the main door, then the security chain, then entered the password, and finally pushed the door open.

The moment the door opened, a familiar musty smell wafted out.

Wallace frowned. He ventilated the house every day, but the musty smell was getting worse.

Perhaps it was because the weather in London had been too humid these past few days, or perhaps his popularity wasn't enough to dispel the musty smell.

But the next second, his pupils suddenly contracted.

The living room was a mess.

The sofa was overturned, and the cups on the coffee table fell to the ground, shattering into several pieces. Books on the bookshelf were scattered all over the floor, some torn to pieces. His canvas bag in the entryway was turned inside out, and the tools inside were scattered on the floor.

Someone broke into his house.

Wallace's heart pounded wildly. He instinctively reached for his waist, where he found a crowbar, the legendary holy sword of physics.

He gripped the crowbar tightly, then tiptoed up to the second floor.

The second-floor corridor was also in a mess, but fortunately, none of the locked doors seemed to have been opened.

Wallace's breathing became more and more rapid, his eyes fixed on the door at the end of the corridor, the room where he kept his daughter's body and Saint Snow.

Upon closer inspection, the lock on the door was still there, and the thread at the bottom of the door was not broken.

Wallace breathed a slight sigh of relief, but his unease grew stronger.

The thread on my own door wasn't broken, yet someone still managed to break in. Could it have come in through a hole in the ceiling?

The thread inside hasn't broken, so he can't be sure that everything is alright inside.

He slowly walked to the door, his fingers trembling as he gripped the handle. He had specially reinforced the lock, making it much sturdier than ordinary locks, but he was still afraid—afraid that the sight behind the door would completely shatter him.

He took a deep breath, unlocked the door with his key, and then gently pushed it open.

The room was pitch black because all the windows were boarded up, and not a single ray of light could get in.

This is his daughter's room. The most noticeable feature is a cabinet that has been laid on its side. The surface of the cabinet is very clean, without a speck of dust; this is a place Wallace wipes down every day.

He walked to the cabinet, gently placed his fingers on the door, and then slowly opened it.

Inside the cabinet, a thick layer of holy snow covered the interior, gleaming with a faint silver light.

In the middle of the sacred snow lay the body of a young girl—his daughter.

She was wearing a dress, her face as pale as paper, yet she still looked exactly as she had in life, showing no signs of decay.

Saint Snow is still here, and so is her daughter.

Wallace's heart finally settled. He gently closed the cabinet door, stroking it with his fingers as if he were stroking his daughter's hair. He thought, as long as Saint Snow was still alive, Lily still had hope of being resurrected, and as long as there was hope, he couldn't give up.

The daughter did not come back to life, perhaps simply because he had not collected enough sacred snow.

as long as
Just as he turned to leave and check the other rooms, he suddenly heard a series of urgent noises behind him.

Before he could react, he felt a gust of wind coming from behind him, and then something hit him hard on the back of the head.

Bang!
A sharp pain instantly swept through his brain, and the scene before his eyes began to spin and blur.

He tried to turn around and raise the crowbar in his hand, but his body wouldn't obey him. His legs went weak, and he collapsed heavily to the ground, warm liquid slowly flowing from the numb back of his head.

"Damn it! Don't swing it this way! What if his blood gets into the cabinet?!"

"Oh, I see."

"Man! We're rich! Look at this whole cabinet of Sacred Snow, at least ten kilograms! If we sell all this Sacred Snow, we'll never have to worry about anything again! We can get a new White Girl every day!"

"Take him away quickly! Don't wait until he wakes up!"

"Why not just kill them?"

"It's a different story if he's not dead! There's no need to take the risk. If you have money, why would you be afraid he'll find you?"

The fragmented conversation pierced Wallace's ears like needles. He wanted to open his eyes, to scream, to stop them, but his eyelids were too heavy, and he could only make hoarse sounds.

He could feel someone dragging his body; he could hear the cabinet being carried away; he could also smell Saint Snow's unique, cool scent mixed with the stench of those people's sweat, gradually moving away from him.

That was his hope, his only reason to live.

Now, everything is gone.

Wallace's consciousness gradually faded, and darkness surged in like a tide, slowly engulfing his senses.

He seemed to see his daughter again, standing by the coffee shop window, smiling at him and saying, "Daddy, look, the pigeons are here!"

But the next second, the screen shattered, turning into a scene from the London disaster.

The giant's footprints shattered the streets, the city wailed, he fled with his daughter, a group of thugs stole his car, and then accidentally killed his daughter.

She lay on the ground, looking at him, her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but ultimately no sound came out.

Just as his consciousness was about to sink completely into darkness, a clear light suddenly appeared before his eyes.

The light wasn't dazzling; instead, it carried a warm feeling.

Immediately afterwards, unfamiliar white characters appeared out of thin air in the light, their meaning clearly imprinted in his mind:

The "unknown" has started a game; will you, who are qualified, enter?

【accept】

【reject】

Wallace was stunned.

He didn't know what it was—a hallucination before his death? Or God's final blessing?

He himself is a game level designer.

His fingers twitched slightly. Although his body was still paralyzed, his mind was unusually clear. With all his might, he silently repeated in his heart, "I accept... I accept."

Please enter a nickname. The nickname must be selected from either the first or last name.

Nickname: Wallace

The text gradually disappeared, and in its place appeared a new line of text:
[The game "1453: Constantinople" is coming soon: 10, 9, 8]

Darkness completely enveloped him.

(End of this chapter)